


Falling to My Knees

by Payson_Blinde



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Ambiguous Relationships, Are they friends? Are they more? ...idk, Bit of Language, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship/Love, John is a sassy bitch, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trainee Guard!Smitty, language is modern, prince!John, takes place in the 1800s, they're lonely but then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Payson_Blinde/pseuds/Payson_Blinde
Summary: Within the palace, a young prince wanders a desolate, golden abyss, with no warmth to find but that of a priceless fur coat.Down below, a boy reloads his rifle, nothing but a uniform to his name. His eyes are unmoving from the target, lest he should turn to see no one.But they will find each other. They always do.





	Falling to My Knees

The city was silent. A cold wind persisted always through the streets, rattling the shutters of every window, whistling in the cracks of every locked door. There were days when the town center wouldn't see a soul, not a lone mother out to fetch dinner, not an old man out to breathe the fresh air, not even the beggars who hobbled out from nowhere to hold a tattered hat.

Beyond the steel gates of the palace, the same desolate silence rang through the halls. A sea of servants once hurried down each corridor, blazing long highways of white shirts and black ties. But now, there were scarcely enough of them to keep the candles lit. The entire West wing had been left to rot when there was no longer time in the day to properly maintain it.

It wasn't always like this. Nearly two decades ago, the city had bubbled with life, the palace bustling, every person bursting with haste to be everywhere, do everything, all at once. But then, hell descended.

A plague rained down on the kingdom. Those who were healthy and hustling one morning would be bedridden by night, and carted off to the fields by noon the next day. People collapsed in the streets. Bodies were piled in alleys and ditches – the carts couldn't keep up. The streets were playgrounds for crows, and worms, and flies. Roaches and rats crept and swarmed in the walls and floors of every home, a creaking, whispering omen of what was to come. Mothers, fathers, children, friends, all shriveled to nothing. Nearly half of every family was erased within weeks, the rest given the devil's laughing mercy, left only to watch their loved ones pale, and weep.

As soon as they received word about the horrors of the plague, the royal family feared for their lives, rising with a start from their dining table and making for the cellar, where they thought safe. But in all their haste, their infant son, Prince John, was left lying silently in his cradle. An elderly maid picked him up and rushed him to the cellar, but the king had ordered it sealed. His mother screamed and pounded on the door, she lunged at the king and slapped him hard across the cheek, but he could not be moved. She fell to the ground and wept.

The servants made for the gates as soon as they heard the news, but the elderly maid, holding the whimpering baby, knew she could not. She sat with Prince John, hidden away in the empty servant's quarters, where she attended to him day and night.

Two days passed. Down in the cellar, one of the queen's sons began coughing blood, and the royal family knew it had all been for naught. The king ordered the servant to open the door. Immediately the queen demanded to see her infant son, but the king held her arm and told her she would kill her only heir. She made to strike him once more, furious that he would keep her from her child in her last days of life, but she stilled her hand. It was the truth.

Over the next few weeks, death rained on the palace; the servants, the children, the king, all lay comfortable and rotting. Only the queen remained, run dry of tears, run dry of prayers, awaiting the cackle of death – and every so often, from somewhere in the palace, she could hear her baby cry. The queen was found cold, but beautiful, untouched by the plague; they say she died of sorrow.

The maid waited, alone only with the young Prince John, for months. From her window, she watched as neighbors and friends were dragged down the streets by their ankles once the pulling horses had died. She thought she was witnessing the end of the world.

It took years for the kingdom to stagger to its feet. Slowly but surely, the bodies were disposed of, and the weary, shattered citizens banned together to rebuild. The maid descended from the servant's quarters, and the shards of the past were pieced together with all the workmanship of a blind painter.

Out of the ninety total, there were seven servants who lived to remember Prince John, and returned to the palace to ensure his safety. They were relieved to find him alive and well, and they decided to remain within the palace, where he ought to be raised. He was, after all, a prince.

Twelve years passed. Prince John grew into a mellow, complicated boy, spending most of his time alone in his room, drawing.

As different sectors of society diverted all their efforts into rebuilding, the shooting range opened for the training of the palace's guards. From his third-story window, Prince John watched with intent curiosity and fascination as the new fleet of boys slowly developed lethal skill and precision – but none compared to one of these trainees – a dark-haired boy, likely around John's age. Over the years, John had watched as he progressed from easily the worst shot on the squad to a simply stunning marksman. By the time he was collecting his target, the red of the bullseye was scattered across the field.

John could only barely make out his face, more recognizable by his long white scarf. John watched him with silent reverence from his solitary window, wishing desperately to meet him. Although the servants treated John well, there wasn't a single soul his age within the palace, leaving him feeling incredibly alone, and dreaming of one day having a friend.

One day, after the guard boy had returned to the barracks for the night, John sought out the help of one of the servants, May. She was a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, and was one of the few servants whom John felt he could tell most things.

“I want to talk to one of the guards.” John told her quietly.

May blinked, confused. “Well, why don't you? There's one right outside.”

John shook his head. “No, one of the trainees.”

“What for?” May questioned.

John could only shrug. “Just to talk to him.”

May gave a small smile and put a hand on John's shoulder. “Hon, you're not going to like me saying this, but it's dangerous to get close to guards. If you want to make a friend, maybe choose someone who will live a while longer.”

John looked up at her, eyes wide. “You mean – he's... going to die young?”

May drew her lips tight, and with a deep breath, she explained, “My husband was a palace guard, and he died defending the royal family from shooters.” She put a hand on John's shoulder. “Now, I'm not making any promises here, but it'd be safer if you picked a different friend.”

John felt dizzy. He gave a silent nod, making his way carefully back to to his room. He sat at his desk, looking out the window to watch the boy gracefully decimate another target, feeling more miserable than he ever had. His head spun, he could taste vomit in the back of his throat. The image of this boy, this beautiful boy he'd watched grow alongside him, bleeding and gasping for breath, dying on the ground, was engraved on his eyelids to haunt him with every blink.

John couldn't take it. He sprinted down from his chambers, out of the palace and around to the training grounds. If his life was so fleeting, then he had to speak to him _now_. Now, while he was breathing and standing and... just, alive.

John traced the fence until he caught a glimpse of the boy in the white scarf, the closest he'd ever been. Immediately John stopped in his tracks. He stared at the back of the boy's head, his hands shaking, his throat choked. What was he even going to say? What if he didn't like him? What if he said something stupid?

John didn't know what to do. He stood there, silent and unsure, for what felt like an eternity. But the longer he did, watching the boy as he reloaded his rifle at the speed of light, the more time John felt he was wasting. It had to be now. He forced his feet forward. He could do this.

On the other side of the fence to the boy, John put his hands in his pockets, waited for thim to work through the magazine, and called, “Hey,” more nervous than he'd ever been in his life, but not about to let it show.

The boy glanced over at him, and gave a polite smile. “Hi,”

John chewed his cheek for a split second, and asked, “What's your name?”

“Smith,” the boy replied. “What's yours?”

“John,” he answered immediately.

Smith went pale. “Wait, hold on, are you – Prince John?”

John looked down at his shoes. “Just John is fine,” he murmured.

Smith looked around nervously, his hand on the nape of his neck. “I don't know if I'm allowed to talk to you...”

John could feel panic rising in his chest. “No, it's fine. Really. Just say I didn't tell you.” he offered hastily.

Smith frowned. “But won't you get in trouble?”

John shrugged, forcing a deep breath through his teeth. “I don't really care. It's boring in there,” It was true, though that wasn't particularly the reason he was here.

Smith still looked apprehensive, looking down at his rifle, his lip under his teeth.

John thought for a second. He had get Smith talking or he might walk away. “Why'd you want to be a guard?” he asked.

Smith pulled his mouth to the side, looking back up at John. “It's... not really something you choose. It's kind of a family tradition.” he explained.

John nodded slowly. “Is it dangerous?” he couldn't help asking.

Smith shrugged. “Kind of. My dad got paralyzed, but that's about it.” he replied nonchalantly.

John wasn't sure whether it was necessarily right to feel relieved, but he did. He was about to speak again when a man from down the field started shouting, and Smith turned on a dime to listen.

He glanced back at John. “Sorry, I, uh, gotta to get back to work.”

John nodded again. “Course, yeah, sorry.” he muttered, putting his hands in his pockets.

Smith took a small step toward him. “But you can come back, you know, during lunch?” Smith offered, quickly adding, “If you want,”

John felt himself crack a smile. “Yeah, definitely. See you later.”

Smith gave him a grin and picked up his rifle. John turned around, walking back along the fence to the beat of the shots.

As he made his way back along the outer wall of the palace, John spotted May through the window, watching him. Immediately, John froze. But after a quiet moment, he realized that he didn't particularly care. Smith wanted to talk to him, and that's all that really seemed to matter. He turned his head away and carried on his way.

John went back to talk to Smith during lunch that day, and the next day, and the next. Every day, his walk was a little steadier. His eyes was a bit brighter. He held his head just the slightest bit higher. Every day, just for those ten minutes, John could sit beside a fence and talk to the boy with the white scarf while he ate his meager lunch, and talk about simple things, and for once he could feel like he wasn't a burden. He wasn't a duty someone had to their country. If Smith wanted, he could have lunch in the barracks with the other boys. He could tell John he was too busy. But he didn't. He sat on the grass, his legs crossed, a wide grin shining in the sun, telling him silly stories and asking him questions, inviting him to come back tomorrow.

The servants in the palace were not overly approving of John's new-found friendship. Never had a member of the royal family befriended a guard, and for good reason: guards were disposable. It wasn't long before May tried to intervene.

His hand on the curling knob of the dining room, about to make his usual escape from lunch, May cleared her throat.

“Where are you off to?” she inquired, picking up his plate.

After a moment's thought, John saw no reason to lie. “Talk to a friend,” he answered.

He glanced over to see May collecting his silverware, watching him from the corner of her eye. “You remember what I told you, don't you?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I do,” he answered flatly, and left the room. 

Without fail, John slipped away from the pressing gaze of the servants and made his way across the field every day for the next year. At that point, Smith's training was finished, and he was assigned a station to hold within the palace.

Upon Smith's first day inside the palace doors, his reaction was priceless. He was immediately transfixed by the absolute beauty of the place. There were delicate, sprawling murals across the walls, thick mahogany doors, lavish rugs, and curtains that were wider than his sleeping quarters. John showed him up to his room while he was on break, and Smith could hardly believe his bed was real – with the dark wooden frame carved with intricate, polished designs, the pillows fluffed past fathoming, the endless mattress draped with soft linens, rich furs, and thick, woven masterpieces.

John watched for an amused second as Smith just stared. Then John leaned toward him and muttered, “Dude, lay in it.” Smith didn't have to be told twice, flopping himself onto the mattress without hesitation, and burying himself with a long sigh.

Immediately, it became tradition for the two of them to spend Smith's spare ten minutes laying in John's bed, talking about everything, until Smith had to return to his station. John, of course, would simply accompany him there, the guards and maids unable to come up with an irrefutable reason why he shouldn't – a reason that John wouldn't immediately shoot down with a simple, “You don't choose who I speak to,” or “I'm your Prince. Take a step back.”

John had never used his status to refute advice or instruction – until now. And he did it with such a dismissive gaze, Smith could only watch in amazement. Rebellion was entirely taboo to Smith's strictly controlled, incredibly institutionalized life. In the barracks, every second was planned, every crease crushed into submission, every lace pulled tight enough to choke. The fact that John could receive even the gentlest order, stare down the servant for a silent moment, and then turn away without even meriting them a response, was fascinating and terrifying. Smith felt like John could do anything he pleased, and the fact that he decided to devote all his free time to him, of all people, was sometimes dizzying.

But more than just a symbol of young, lawless power, John was his friend.

One day, when the sun was descending on the hilltops and Smith's shift came to an end, John walked with him down the field toward the barracks.

John looked at him curiously, and asked, “Do you see your parents much?” Smith had never mentioned it.

Smith bit his cheek. “I mean, I guess they could visit if they wanted.”

John felt his mouth go dry. He wasn't sure what to say, but Smith sensed his distress and carried on. “But they're kinda old, you know? And to be honest, I don't think I'd want them to,” he continued with a short laugh.

John knew that laugh: there was something in those words that Smith didn't think he should talk about. John wasn't sure whether or not to pry, but before he could decide, his mouth was already asking, “Why not?”

Smith's smile was gone. “We didn't exactly... separate on good terms. I mean, I was seven, but something about being shipped off to someplace I'd never been, away from everyone, just doesn't leave a good last impression.” he explained, his voice growing more and more vicious with every second, and he nearly spat the words, “But a tradition's a tradition, there's no fighting it.” 

John nodded slowly, looking for a new topic. “So... you'd never been in the city?” he inquired, and Smith nodded.

“When my dad was paralyzed, they all had to moved out to the middle of nowhere. I mean, it meant they survived the plague, but it was all we could afford.” he answered with a shrug.

John blinked. “You must've been pretty poor, huh?” He never thought he'd meet a poor person in his life. They... well, they all lived in the middle of nowhere.

Smith nodded again, and John could feel him keeping a careful eye on him. “Yeah. Kinda gets in the way.”

John frowned. “Gets in the way?”

Smith took a long breath. “Well, I mean, you can _smell_ the gold behind these trainees. It's not like they let just anyone defend the palace. My family's all been guards since... I dunno, probably since there's been a palace to guard. So I'm dirt poor, but they let me in. These other guys, though, they're not like that.”

“Do they... What, are they dicks about it?” John asked. His frown had deepened into a glare.

Smith shrugged. “I mean, can't really blame them. That's just noble culture.” He broke into a false grin. “You know, I used to get all mad about it. Thought maybe if I just got really, _really_ good, they'd... I dunno, forget all of it and be my friend. But that's not how it works.” Again, he shrugged. “Live and learn.”

John's face fell. He tugged Smith's arm, stopping in his tracks with a quiet, “Hey.” Smith turned to face him, his evening shadow hiding his face. John pulled Smith close, and after a moment, Smith's arms wrapped tight around him. John's surprise faded quickly, and for a moment, there was nothing to think about but being right here.

In the pitch blackness that engulfed them, the two of them had wandered alone, blind, cold, waiting for destiny's mercy – waiting to find each other.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in seeing how I saw the two of them growing up, here's a thing:
> 
> https://payson-blinde.tumblr.com/post/171553846777/continuation-of-krii7y
> 
> Also, I know the foreshadowing is kinda ominous, but I don't see Smitty dying. I'm not a fan of character death. Happy and together forever, please.


End file.
